Home
by PennyForTheGuy
Summary: A Sin'dorei rouge sits in a tree in Ashenvale, coming towards the end of her search for home. Written late at night in a bout of boredom, hence the randomness.


Home…

Treale crouched in the tree, staring through the silver beams at nothing in particular. Ashenvale was ethereal, mystical, it felt alive to the point she could swear it thought, it spoke through the babbling streams, groaning branches, and whispering breezes. Treale's ancestors once ruled this forest along with thousands of others, they once walked daily under these twilight canopies.

She's arrived months ago from a broken but sun filled homeland. Eversong had few similarities to Ashenvale. Eversong was full of magic, cultivated, controlled, and sculpted as if by an artist. Ashenvale was wild and free, and felt absolutely ancient.

Treale had decided to come see this place before the orcs of the Warsong Offensive harvested it. The Night Elves defended their home as fiercely as the High Elves had when the Scourge invaded.

All their power, all their knowledge, all their combined might had ended up meaning less than nothing. Quel'Thalas was torn to bits, assaulted, scarred, left for dead, it's very heart slashed out and tainted beyond repair. Treale had no doubts the same would eventually happen to Ashenvale. Still something felt different. Ashenvale in its wildness seemed to have no real center, no real source of power. Its life force seemed to flow freely, without much rhyme or reason.

That alone may be why the Night Elves were hanging on so well. They could retreat and regroup, collect their power in any place, draw upon the ancient forest whenever and where ever needed. They were as at home in branches and bushes as she was in a bed in Silvermoon.

Treale saw movement far below. A Silver Wing warrior, stalking an unwary undead warlock far below. Treale considered jumping down onto the warrior as she charged her bow directly beneath her. Then she more movement nearby, more elves blending in the brush and shadows, fading in and out of sight in the dappled light. The warlock was done for, and Treale was not ready to die today. Besides, the undead weren't exactly afraid of death, after all, they'd already gone through it.

The warlock's was sudden, and maybe it was better that way.

Even though they were allied with this Horde, Treale felt little loyalty to it. A sentiment shared by many of her kind, and even the undead. Treale felt little loyalty period, it had been that way for a long time now, and it was better for rouges not to get too attached to anything.

She took a deep whiff of the forest air, it smelled of tree sap, damp earth and foliage, and of blood. This whole world smelled of blood.

And yet she stayed, she didn't follow the other pilgrims into the Dark Portal. She'd heard of Kael'thas's betrayal, and honestly didn't much care. Anyhting to do with Quel'Thalas didn't interest her much, it wasn't home anymore. No where was home. Maybe that was why she'd come to Kalimdor, why she'd wandered Feralas and the ruins there, why she'd spent so long in the trees here, why she wanted to go to Hyjal and see Nordrassil. Trying to find a new home in the old one.

It felt a little stupid and childish to be searching for a place to belong here, the place her more recent ancestors where forbidden to ever return too. Still something drove Treale to stay, to search, to try to find something to replace Eversong.

Treale sat in the branches, still staring into space, as a long shaft tipped with steel and poison was trained on her.

The next thing she knew her chest was in agony and she was hurdling towards the ground. She hit with a bone crunching thud, and got the wind knocked out of her. Her vision was blurred, her mouth was full of a metallic, bitter taste, and she felt like her chest was ripping open with every heaving gasp she took.

Someone stood over her, crouched down, with something long and thin in their hand. Treale recognized the flash of steel as they raised the blade just above her neck. Treale tried to say something, but her mouth and throat were too clogged with blood, she could only gurgle like some drowning murloc.

"Die in peace," said the man, his voice almost soothing, "you will be home soon."

Treale didn't feel the knife being thrust in; all she felt was everything ebbing away, every emotion and memory fading into silent, white nothing. And yet Treale felt a hand brush her face. She looked again and saw an old friend, gone for years, sitting under a golden tree with white bark.

"Home…"


End file.
